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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27600208">You Are The Dreamer, We Are The Dream</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wren_bird/pseuds/Wren_bird'>Wren_bird</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Welcome to Night Vale</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>First Time, Fluff and Smut, M/M, When flirting leads to a science mishap, Which leads to Carlos' bedroom, Which leads to more flirting, Why yes I am writing wtnv smut in 2020</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-07 00:53:41</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,511</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27600208</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wren_bird/pseuds/Wren_bird</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Inspired by alligotleftismybones 's prompt, "I accidentally spilled hydrochloric acid on you so you really need to use the emergency shower and omg, if i knew you looked that good shirtless and wet i would have spilled it on you much earlier in the semester". </p>
<p>Carlos steps in when Cecil has an incident with some angel goo. And, what better place to address your feelings than under a neon orange shower?</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Carlos/Cecil Palmer</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>99</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>You Are The Dreamer, We Are The Dream</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“<i>Now</i> what are you doing?”</p>
<p>	Carlos glances up from his microscope to where Cecil is sitting, cross-legged, on the counter. Beside him, a test tube of an iridescent liquid left behind by the so-called angels after a rainstorm is simmering over a Bunsen burner. Cecil doesn’t seem bothered by the heat, or the plumes of smoke pouring out the top. Anyone else would have put as much space between themselves and the test tube as possible. Well, anyone else would have just walked out on Carlos rather than help him collect angel entrails. </p>
<p>	“I want to take a closer look at this… stuff,” Carlos replies. “Whatever it is. Something tells me you won’t find it on the periodic table.”</p>
<p>	Cecil does a double take when he notices the chart taped to the back of the door. “Carlos! Don’t you know that periodic tables have been banned in Night Vale since the californium disaster of ‘86?” He pauses for a moment, then continues, “You <i>scoundrel</i>.”</p>
<p>	Carlos turns back to the microscope to hide the blush that sears across his face. One furtive look from Cecil and all the blood goes rushing to his dick. Goddamnit, he isn’t some teenager anymore. He shouldn’t get hard-ons because someone looks at him a certain way. </p>
<p>	But Cecil…</p>
<p>	Cecil can look past the stammering and the science talk and the glasses and even the organs and bone, and see right through to his soul. Or conscience. Whatever. His eyes are deep enough to get lost in, and knowing Night Vale, he wouldn’t be surprised if Cecil actually could make them ascend to another metaphysical plane just by making a sultry face. </p>
<p>	And thank god for that, because Carlos can’t string a romantic sentence together unless he’s using some chemistry metaphors. Since they returned to his lab, he’s been quiet and bashful. The courage he worked up last week, to confess his feelings, to snuggle up with him under the lights above the Arby’s, has left him. </p>
<p>	When the test tube begins to bubble, and the scent of Johnson &amp; Johnson’s baby shampoo fills the room, Carlos turns the Bunsen burner off. Cecil slinks down from his perch, watching as the liquid turns from midnight blue to deep green to cherry red then back to blue again. </p>
<p>	“Fascinating,” Carlos mutters. “If the entrails react to heat, I wonder what would happen if we threw hot water-- oh!”</p>
<p>	Cecil’s tattooed arms snake around his waist. Carlos barely has the time to ask himself if that crescent moon tattoo just winked at him before he startles from the surprise hug. The desk rattles, and the test tube tips over, sloshing the warm liquid onto Cecil’s forearms. </p>
<p>	“<i>Shit!</i>” Carlos exclaims. He turns around and grabs Cecil by the shoulders, looking from his face to his arms and back again. </p>
<p>	“Oh, Ceec, I’m so sorry, I-- Jesus, we need to clean you up.”</p>
<p>	Cecil, for his part, seems totally unaffected. He holds his arms out in front of him, bracketing Carlos, and says, “It kinda tickles. Neat.”</p>
<p>Carlos shakes off the urge to write that down, and instead pushes him towards the emergency shower. “Just because it tickles doesn’t mean it won’t burn off your skin.” 	</p>
<p>He manhandles Cecil to the neon orange shower in the corner. (And totally doesn’t think about how he lets himself be held. Not at all). “Take off your shirt,” he orders.</p>
<p>Cecil chuckles, his voice rumbling. “If you wanted to see me shirtless, Carlos, you could have just asked.”</p>
<p>He slips the royal purple suede button-up over his head, and Carlos almost forgets to pull the start lever. Cecil’s chest is covered with tattoos. Moons and stars that spin and twinkle. Vines that crawl across his skin. A large eye across his left shoulder. It winks salaciously at him. What’s more, the tattoos skitter over each other as the tepid water pours over Cecil’s body. </p>
<p>And because Cecil defies every last thing Carlos knows about the universe, and he does it all with a smile and that born-for-radio voice, he takes a step forward and kisses Cecil. The water trickles to a stop as Carlos drops the lever in favour of Cecil’s chin. (It’s sharper, bonier, than he imagined). Cecil gives instantly, letting his mouth go slack, throwing his arms around Carlos’ shoulders, moaning as Carlos licks past his lips. He tastes like a birthday cake. He asks him about it when they pull apart, both heaving and dripping wet. </p>
<p>“Oh, that’s just my toothpaste,” he explains simply. </p>
<p>Carlos slides his hands from his chin, down to his shoulders, to his elbows, and then takes hold of his forearm and examines the skin where the angel entrails burned him. A vine and a solar system -- not their own -- are running circles around each other, and run off when Carlos prods the area with his thumbs. Cecil’s skin is stained blue. </p>
<p>“It doesn’t hurt, does it?”</p>
<p>“Not at all! It’s more like feeling sticky from a chlorine swimming pool.”</p>
<p>“I should run some more tests, anyways. Cecil, I’m so sor--”</p>
<p>Cecil cuts him off with a heavy sigh and a surge forward, slamming their mouths together so hard it almost hurts. This kiss isn’t as delicate; it’s furvered, heated, with their teeth clashing and neither one caring. Carlos lets himself drown in its intensity, lets Cecil push his mouth apart and suck on his lower lip. He shepherds Carlos back against the wall, sliding his cold hands under his lab coat, under his flannel shirt. He shrugs the coat off immediately, relishing in the rippling of goosebumps as Cecil runs his hands over his fuzzy forearms. </p>
<p>The flannel -- well, the flannel requires breaking apart, and the air is buzzing in a way that makes Carlos certain that the universe will implode if they stop touching. Eventually he turns his head, and Cecil presses wet, open-mouthed kisses to his cheek. Then his jaw. Then his neck. And, oh god, he was going to say something. What was he going to say?</p>
<p>“Cecil.”</p>
<p>He moans against his neck. Carlos’ hands shoot to his scalp, firmly holding his head in place. Which, of course, makes him moan again. In a laboured tone, Carlos manages, “Cecil. Honey. We… we need a bed. Or a sofa. O-or blankets or something because… because I’m about to freeze, and… Jesus!”</p>
<p>Cecil slips a hand under his flannel and pinches a nipple. The coy (and lovable) bastard knows what he’s doing, because he moves a fraction of an inch away, and he <i>smirks</i>, goddamnit, actually <i>smirks</i> in a way that makes his knees go weak. A cocktail of testosterone and lust and not wanting hypothermia comes together in his brain, and he takes hold of Cecil’s hips, pushing him backwards, and then leading him upstairs. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Oh, Carlos. My perfect, <i>perfect</i> Carlos.”</p>
<p>“Fuck, Cecil.”</p>
<p>“Oh, I love it when you say my name. It’s like an electric shock leaving your lips. It goes right through me. Right… right <i>here</i>. Say it again.”</p>
<p>“Cecil!”</p>
<p>“Yes! Yes, Carlos, like that… perfect… right there. Great Mephistopheles, look at your arms. The things I want these arms to do to me!”</p>
<p>“Oh, god…”</p>
<p>“Make me come, Carlos. Harder, please. I want to feel your perfect body against mine -- gah! -- I want to feel it days from now. I want to feel you while I’m sitting in my booth.”</p>
<p>“Jesus, Cecil, I’m gonna--”</p>
<p>“Me too, me too!”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Do you ever wish I wasn’t so bad with words?”</p>
<p>	Carlos whispers the secret into the dark, not even sure if Cecil is awake. He’s barely awake himself, with the comforting rhythm of Cecil’s steady breaths against his side. But then Cecil shoots out of bed so quickly and forcefully that he lets out an undignified yelp. </p>
<p>	Cecil stands at his bedside for a moment, just a vague shadow in the pale moonlight. He is so still that Carlos begins to wonder if he’s been possessed by some otherworldly entity. (Wouldn’t be the first time). But then he lunges forward and turns on the bedside lamp in one swift motion. He kneels on the mattress, and holds Carlos’ face in his hands. </p>
<p>	“Oh, Carlos! How could you think something so… so ghastly about yourself? There isn’t a single thing about you that I wish to change!”</p>
<p>	“It’s just… I always know how you feel, and -- and, I don’t know. I’m worried I don’t share enough.”</p>
<p>	Cecil waggles his eyebrows. “Oh, you share <i>plenty</i>.”</p>
<p>	Carlos laughs in spite of his diffidence. </p>
<p>	“You are partly right, though,” Cecil continues. “I do use my words more than you do. But, sweetheart, every single thing you do has purpose. The way you look at me, the way you touch me… Ever since that night at the Arby’s, I haven’t doubted how you feel about me.”</p>
<p>	He takes hold of Cecil’s hips and brings him down, gently, so that they’re pressed up against each other. Carlos pushes his white hair away from his forehead, kisses his hairline, and says, “Cecil?”</p>
<p>“Yeah?”</p>
<p>“I think I’m falling in love with you.”</p>
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